


Body Count

by J_A_Hunnings



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 02:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21172286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_A_Hunnings/pseuds/J_A_Hunnings
Summary: A first attempt at an X-Files story (and my first ever fanfic) intended to be a "Lost Episode" (which takes place between Season Two'sIrresistibleandDie Hand Die Verletzt).Mulder and Scully are called in to investigate a string of murders in rural Illinois, only to uncover chilling evidence that the US military is involved - and may even be ordering the deaths.(Please Note: Still in production)





	1. Chapter 1

BRANWELL, ILLINOIS  
JANUARY 10TH, 1995, 8:55 A.M.

“Great. Just great,” he muttered. “No way I'm gonna get there on time now.”

Steve Shears was thirty four years old, though his already thinning hair added a few years to his appearance. People were often surprised to learn Steve was a computer programmer: with his six-foot-five, 165-pound frame he definitely didn't fit the weedy, bespectacled stereotype.

Steve was also running late for a job interview, and stuck in rush hour traffic.

He watched with a strange feeling of helplessness as the dashboard clock clicked over from 8:56 to 8:57. As he shifted his weight in his seat, the traffic signals ahead changed to green. The cars in front slowly began to roll forward and he released the parking brake. He sighed as he pulled away, glad to be moving again. Two cars crossed the junction ahead. Three. Four, and now he was at the front of the queue. The traffic signal changed and he slowed to a stop, letting out a curse under his breath.

Time slowed to a crawl.

From his right, the near-deafening blare of a semi-truck's horn grew nearer. Steve looked toward the noise and saw panic in the truck driver’s face. He could see the truck driver working the brake pedal with all his might, but the truck kept coming.

The car in front was still partway across the junction with nowhere to go.

The truck impacted. Windshields and windows shattered in an eruption of glass shards. The truck rammed the car sideways along the road, the rubber of the car's tyres eventually getting traction against the asphalt. The car began to roll, paper and glass and pieces of metal flying in all directions. Steve could see its driver was still in his seat, kept there by his seatbelt as the contents of the car swirled around and under and above him.

The maelstrom of chaos and debris also enveloped the cab of the semi-truck. The truck driver found himself surrounded by delivery schedules and empty drinks cans and loose coins and other detritus. The impact force shoved him toward the windshield and his head would have hit the glass save for the seatbelt he was wearing. As it cracked, small pieces of the safety glass peppered his face in tiny cubes and rained down around his feet.

The truck finally came to halt. The car had rolled over at least once, and now bore little resemblance to the silver Ford Taurus that had begun to cross the junction just moments before. The roof had collapsed in as it rolled, the panels crushed and battered, and every one of the windows was shattered. It now lay on its left side, grey smoke billowing from under the hood. Thin yellow fluid leaked from the Ford's ruptured brake system, mingling with the dirt on the road.

Time returned to normal.

Without thinking, Steve reached for the door handle and got out of his car. He pushed the door shut again behind him, not caring if it actually closed properly. He ran over to where the two vehicles had become a twisted metal mass. He could hear a woman screaming in horror at what she had just witnessed, the sound mingling with the unceasing noise of the Ford's horn and with shouts from the gathering crowd of onlookers.

“Somebody call Nine-One-One!”

As he reached up to open the passenger door of the truck's cab, Steve could hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. He pulled the door open. Inside the cab, the truck driver was already being tended to by a woman who had apparently had the same idea as him. As the woman felt the truck driver's throat to find his pulse, she turned to him.

“He's hurt, but I think he'll live. Go check the other driver.”

She turned back, looking at her watch as she counted the truck driver's heartbeats. Steve stepped back down to the ground, leaving the woman to tend to the truck driver. As he hurried round to the front of the car, he saw flashing blue and red lights - the approaching ambulance and a pair of squad cars that accompanied it.

The driver of the car was in bad shape. His door had taken the brunt of the collision and he had become trapped in his seat when the car rolled over and the roof collapsed. Now he lay unconscious on his side, his seatbelt still fastened.

As he knelt in front of the car's shattered windshield, Steve realised that getting access to help the driver would be difficult. He peered through the spider-webbed glass at the driver. Blood and bruises marked the man's face, and more blood oozed out from his hairline from another, unseen wound.

“Hey, buddy?” Steve called out to the driver, hoping to rouse him from unconsciousness. “Hey there, can you hear me?”

There was no response. He pulled at the edges of the windshield, trying to move it out of the way so he could see better. He pulled hard, and a large piece of the shattered glass came away from its rubber edging. He pulled again, freeing another section of broken windshield.

Steve felt a hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him backwards. He looked around to see an EMT technician, emergency kit in hand. Behind the EMT stood a firefighter holding a large piece of machinery that looked like a cross between a chainsaw and a giant pair of pliers. He recognised it as the Jaws of Life.

“We'll take it from here, sir,” the EMT said.

Steve nodded silently and got to his feet, watching as the EMT knelt where he had just been, reaching through the gap in the windshield to tend to the driver. The firefighter moved to crouch next to the EMT. Steve was vaguely aware of a second EMT tech at the cab of the truck as he watched the first trying to find the car driver's pulse. The EMT gently lifted the stricken man's eyelids, checking his pupils with a small flashlight. He looked at the firefighter crouched next to him, and shook his head silently.

Steve had watched enough TV shows to know what the silent headshake meant. A wave of sadness washed over him, and he looked down at the road surface as his eyes filled began to fill with tears for this man he had never known.

Through a blurry film of tears, he saw it. Laying on the asphalt amongst the shattered glass and other debris was what looked like a black leather wallet. Steve swiped away his tears then stooped to pick it up. The wallet was obviously well-worn, the corners softened and curled with use. The sheen had long been worn away, and now there were gouges across the leather from the crash, too.

Steve flipped open the wallet, revealing an ID card and a photo. It was the man from the car. He read the name to himself.

“Special Agent Fox Mulder.”


	2. Chapter 2

WASHINGTON, D.C.  
FIVE DAYS EARLIER

It was still dark outside as Scully flashed her ID at the security guard at the entrance to the FBI building's subterranean parking garage. The guard looked from the photo on the card to Scully's face, with the casual boredom that comes from continually repeated action. He turned to the console inside his booth and pressed the button that opened the barrier to allow her access, waving her through without looking back at her.

This time of morning, very few of the bays were occupied by cars, offering Scully the chance to park almost anywhere she chose. She spotted Mulder's car parked in a bay in a dimly-lit corner - his usual spot. Her partner kept his car away from the others, the same way as he did with both with his work and his office – away from general scrutiny. She parked her own car a few bays along from his, killed the engine, and picked up her briefcase from the passenger seat.

Scully's footsteps echoed noisily around her as she walked across the oil-stained concrete of the parking lot towards the elevator. Although the suit she wore was made of wool, she was glad of the extra layer her trenchcoat gave her. Even on the hottest days, the underground parking lot was chilly; in the pre-dawn hours of a frosty January morning, it was so cold Scully could see her own breath.

Scully pressed the “Call” button by the elevator, the doors sliding open almost immediately. She stepped inside and pressed the button marked “UP”, waiting for the gentle jolt as the elevator caught up the slack in the cables before it began to rise. Mulder's office was one floor below ground level, two floors above the subterranean parking lot, but for security reasons the elevator went straight to street-level, three floors above. As she waited for the lift to make its journey, Scully thought back to the hurried phone call she had got from Mulder a little under an hour before.

“Scully, it's me -” he had begun, before interrupting himself. “It's still early... why aren't you asleep?”

Scully could hear a note of concern in Mulder's voice. He knew she had been having trouble sleeping since they closed the Pfaster case, just two months ago. It was comforting to know that he was concerned for her.

“Mulder, I'm fine. I woke up early, that's all.”

“You're sure?” He had paused, apparently deciding whether or not to press the issue. Choosing to drop it, he had continued, “I need you to come down to the office, as soon as you can. I want to get your professional opinion on something. How quickly can you get here?”

“I'll be there in an hour,” she had told him. He had hung up before she could add anything more.

The elevator finally reached street-level, and the main foyer of the FBI building. Scully glanced at her watch as the doors slid open and she stepped out. It was 10 minutes before 5. There were a handful of agents and other FBI staff in the foyer; not one of them paid her any attention as she walked towards the two square silver arches of the metal detectors that stood opposite the entrance doors.

“Good morning,” Scully smiled at the security guard, who nodded back in silent reply. She reached into her coat pocket and removed her keys, which were soon joined in the tray next to the detector by her service weapon, clipped into its leather holster. She stepped through. The detector made no sound and Scully retrieved the items from the tray, clipping the holster back onto her belt as she walked away.

The main corridor was mostly empty. Here and there, agents who recognised Scully acknowledged her as she passed, but most of those around her were simply too busy to pay her much attention. She had to sidestep as a door unexpectedly opened in front of her, waving away the offered apology with a smile. She reached the steps which led down to the basement, and Mulder's office.

The door to Mulder's office – their office, Scully reminded herself – was open. Mulder was sitting in front of the computer in the corner of the office, already hard at work despite the early hour. She stood at the doorway for a moment, watching her partner tapping away at his computer keyboard. As he sat with his back toward her, he was totally oblivious to her presence. She watched him stop typing to pick up a large black-and-white photograph from the desk next to him, leaning back in his chair as he studied it. Within arm’s reach of his chair was a white mug emblazoned with the FBI logo. Without taking his eyes from the photo he was studying, Mulder reached over to pick up the mug, sipping at its contents. Scully waited for him to put it down before she cleared her throat and stepped into the office.

“Hey Scully,” Mulder smiled at her, turning round in his seat. He took off his glasses and placed them next to the keyboard, gesturing to a second mug on the desk that dominated the small room.

“Coffee. Creamer, no sugar, right?” he asked. She watched as small curl of steam rose from the mug.

“Thanks, Mulder.”

Scully shrugged off her coat and hung it on the back of the office door. She picked up her coffee, walking over to where Mulder was sitting. Cradling her mug in both hands, she leaned against a nearby filing cabinet before taking a sip.

_I guess that’s one advantage of early morning starts_, she thought. _The coffee is always fresh, and hot._

“So, Mulder,” Scully began, “you said you needed my professional opinion about something. You mean as an FBI agent, or as a medical doctor?”

“Both, actually,” he replied.

He sat forward in his chair, reaching for the rest of the photos from the case file next to the computer keyboard. Gathering them up, Mulder flipped through them and took one from the middle of the stack. He placed it on top of the others before handing them to her.

The photos were evidently from a crime scene, taken on black-and-white film. FBI protocol dictated that monochrome film was to be used to document such scenes, as the lack of colour helped agents to detach themselves from the human side of the carnage and focus on the evidence at hand. The FBI’s budget also dictated it, as the cost of processing black-and-white film was lower when compared to colour.

The photo Mulder had placed on the top of the pile was a close-up shot of what appeared to be the left forearm of a man. There were no tattoos or other identifying features that Scully could discern from the image. There were a series of marks slashed into the flesh of the inside of the forearm. The cuts were deep - probably made by a very sharp blade, she guessed - but there seemed to be almost no sign of bleeding. She guessed the cuts had been inflicted after the victim’s heart had stopped beating. The cuts formed clear letters, and she read them aloud.

“Three...?”

"That’s what it says,” Mulder replied with a shrug. “I don’t know what it means in terms of the case, though – yet.”

Scully flipped through the rest of the photos. The second image was a close-up of the victim's neck. An inch or so below the man's ear was a neat round hole. An injury in that location, she knew, could easily have resulted in the man's death. The other photos were shots of potentially relevant evidence and other details of the crime scene. The last image showed the position of the body as it was found, the gravel on which it lay stained with black, eyes staring lifelessly at the sky. Scully flipped back to the first image. To say she was used to the sight of blood was an understatement, but Scully was glad that the photos were black-and-white, particularly so early in the day.

“This is 36-year-old construction worker Michael Harris,” Mulder told her. “He was found two days ago, laying on the central reservation of the I-80 just outside the town of Branwell, a hundred twenty miles west of Chicago. FedEx driver spotted the body as he drove by and reported it to local PD. Cause of death was extreme loss of blood from that puncture wound in the neck. No other apparent trauma apart from the slashes on his chest, which the coroner determined were probably made post-mortem.”

“The lack of blood on the victim’s torso would definitely support that hypothesis,” Scully agreed, nodding slowly. “Death by cardiac arrest due to hypovolemic shock also fits as the most likely outcome from a puncture wound to the carotid artery. Unfortunately for him, his heart would have done most of the work by itself.” She handed the photos back to her partner.

“Where do we fit in?” she asked him. “I’m guessing you’re not about to tell me this is the work of a disgruntled police detective named ‘B.J.’, who happens to be acting under the influence of a generation-skipping genetic compulsion?”

Mulder laughed. “While this case does appear to share some similarities with our investigation in Aubrey,” he replied, “I don’t think there’s a connection here. Morrow and Cokely slashed ‘Brother’ or ‘Sister’ into their victims’ chests, not their arms, they didn’t wound their victim’s necks – and anyway, Morrow hasn’t been released from the Shamrock Women’s Psychiatric Facility yet - I called them earlier, just to check. They still have her on suicide watch, apparently. It doesn’t explain the word “Three”, either.”

Scully tilted her head at him; fair enough. She took another sip of her coffee, waiting for Mulder to continue.

“I got a call yesterday from a contact at the Chicago division,” he said, “saying local PD has hit a wall in their investigation. They want a psychological profiler to help them to identify a suspect, and my name was suggested.

“I’ve been doing a little digging since I got the call,” he added, standing up and reaching across her to retrieve the top few sheets of paper from the wire tray at her elbow. Scully took a half-step to the side as Mulder picked up the sheets. He turned round, and spread them out on his desk to make them easier to see. Setting down her coffee cup, Scully stood next to him as he talked.

The sheets of paper were grainy photocopies of crime scene photos: a man’s torso with ‘One’ carved on it, and ‘Two’ sliced across a woman’s back.

“I found these among the open investigations in Illinois. This is David Schneider, and this is Tiffany Chase,” Mulder said, putting names to the pictures. “The three deaths all happened in the last three months, in different circumstances and jurisdictions across the state. All of them occurred in rural locations with fewer police and less resources, which is why no-one connected the cases.”

“Until now,” Scully offered.

“Until now,” he echoed in agreement. “If we can definitively link the three previous cases, it’ll make the psych profile much easier to compile. That's why I called you. I need you to go over the coroner’s findings for each of them, to see if there’s anything in the autopsies that might help.”

He paused to look up, checking the calendar that hung on the wall opposite.

“Today’s Thursday,” he went on, “If we phone through to arrange to have the files transferred here, it could be the middle of next week before they all arrive. If we fly out to Illinois, we could get them ourselves, and easily cut a few days off that. Hopefully, we might even be able to find some witnesses to interview while we’re there.” Mulder turned to his partner with a smile saying, “So, Agent Scully, you ever been to the ‘Prairie State’?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Then today’s your lucky day!” Mulder’s smile grew. “Our flight leaves at 11 a.m.”


	3. Chapter 3

BRANWELL, ILLINOIS.  
7:18 A.M.

The sun was beginning to rise when he was dragged from the warm comfort of sleep by the incessant ringing of his cheap alarm clock. He reached for it from under the duvet, fumbling blindly until he found first the clock, then the switch that finally silenced the noise. He rolled over with a groan and pulled himself into a sitting position, groggily rubbing his eyes to banish the last vestiges of sleep.

He threw the covers aside and swung his legs around until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. There was a puddle of brown fabric near his feet - his dressing gown, he realised after a second or two. He leaned over to snatch it up from the floor, thrusting his arms into the sleeves and tying the thin fabric belt around his stomach as he got to his feet. He stomped across to the bathroom, grasping for the light pull that hung just inside the doorway. The small fluorescent tube blinked audibly from the ceiling a few times, before it clicked on and harsh white light flooded the tiny room. He stood still for a moment, squinting out from screwed-up eyes, waiting as they adjusted to the change in light. He moved to lean on the grimy washbasin, looking past the dirty water marks that covered the cracked mirror to stare at his reflection.

A wave of pain suddenly convulsed through him, burning outwards from his chest and flowing to his limbs like fire. His knees gave way, and only the fact that his weight was over the washbasin prevented him from dropping to the floor. He gasped as the second wave hit more intensely than the last, the pain seemingly worse than ever before. Though his vision was swimming and his heart was thumping in his chest, he managed to keep himself from blacking out. He was vaguely aware of an odd taste in the back of his throat, familiar yet unknown.

_This is getting pretty old now_, he thought.

_Pull it together, man_, he told himself gruffly. _You’ve been through worse. You got what, two more left to go? Two more, then you’ll be done. Breathe._

_Breathe._

Eventually, the pain subsided and he was able to stand again. He spat into the basin and reached for the toothbrush that stood, bristles-up, in a glass nearby. He roughly squeezed some toothpaste onto the bristles and began to brush, trying to mask the taste in his mouth with the flavor of mint. He rinsed and spat, pausing to take a few more deep breaths, eyes closed and fists clenched.

He forced himself to relax his hands. Opening his eyes, he turned away from the mirror and left the bathroom, yanking at the light pull as he passed. He looked around the room and spotted a pair of worn Levi’s slung over the back of a nearby chair. He pulled them with him as he went back to sit on the edge of the bed.

He shrugged out of the dressing gown and pulled on his jeans as he sat down. He opened a drawer in the bedside table, grabbing the T-shirt that lay inside. It was grey, but looked as though it had once been a much lighter shade. He yanked the T-shirt down over his head, standing up as he thrust his arms through the sleeves. His boots lay in the same place they had landed after he kicked them off last night.

Before he retrieved them, he reached into the drawer a second time. When he withdrew his hand, his fingers were wrapped around a straight razor, folded shut. He slipped it into his back pocket and shoved at the drawer, slamming it shut. Satisfied he was ready, he pulled on his boots, taking care to knot the laces twice. As he pulled open the front door, he snatched his coat from its hook. He pushed his arms into its sleeves and checked his pockets. Feeling the familiar cold metal of his keys, he smiled to himself and stepped outside.

The trailer rattled as he slammed the door behind him. It was old and had seen better days, but to him it was the closest thing he had to a home. Over the years the weather had taken its toll on the outside of the mobile home, rain and hail and sunshine each taking their turn at battering the paint until it had all but worn away. Rust marked most of the exposed metal in large orange-brown patches. The trailer’s windows had once been clear, but were now so scratched and dust-blown that the cracked plastic was almost completely opaque under the thick coating of grime that had built up on them.

Turning his back on the trailer, he pulled his keys from his coat pocket. He sorted through them in the few strides it took him to reach his truck, looking for the ignition key. He yanked open the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and slipped the key into the ignition. As the engine thrummed into life, he pulled driver’s door shut. He put the truck into gear before reaching across to grab his seat belt and pull it over his lap, ramming it into the latch with a **click**.

Without warning, his body was inundated by another wave of pain. He closed his eyes as though it might help stave off the coming onslaught, although he knew it would not. His muscles tightened in agony as fire coursed through them again, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles turning white. He strained, but in spite of the force of the spasms that wracked his body, the restraint held him in his seat. He gasped for breath, heart thumping heavily in his chest. Bitter experience had taught him that he could do nothing to ease the pain, except keep breathing and wait for it to pass.

After what seemed like an eternity, the pain finally faded. As the waves had passed through him they seemed to pull the energy from his body. After the agony dissipated, he sat motionlessly in his seat as he waited for his strength to return. He slowly became aware of the noise of the truck’s engine. He shook his head to clear away the fog that seemed fill it, reaching forward and releasing the parking brake. He pushed on the accelerator, turning round in his seat to look out of the rear windshield.

The truck’s wheels spun for a split second before they found traction, kicking up dust in clouds that were whipped up into the air by the breeze. As he reversed away from the trailer, he deftly guided the truck backwards down the thin dirt trail. It snaked among the trees, and he navigated the turns without taking his eyes from the road behind him. After a few dozen yards, the track opened up into a clearing. Taking his foot off the gas, he wrenched the steering wheel to one side. The truck began to turn, and he put it into neutral gear. Dust plumes billowed around the truck as it slid. When the truck had almost made a half-turn, he pushed the truck’s gear lever to ‘Drive’ and stomped on the gas, grinning despite himself as the truck leaped forward. He guided the truck along the trail to where it merged with the highway. As he turned onto the blacktop he shifted his weight in his seat, remembering the straight razor. He pulled it from his pocket and tossed it on the seat beside him. He settled back in his seat, getting comfortable. His destination was at least an hour’s drive away.


	4. Chapter 4

VERNON HILLS, ILLINOIS

Libertyville Naval Outer Landing Field was essentially an open, grassy field when it first came into use in around 1943. For the next few years, the Field bore witness to little more than a scattered few training flights. For the fledgling pilots, those moments marked a transformation; boys who could only dream of flight growing into men who lived to fly. The names of the bravest still survive, but only as letters carved into the war memorials here at home, or in Europe, or in Asia.

By the end of World War Two, the wide swathes of short-mown grass that had passed for Libertyville's landing strips were replaced with more durable concrete. The four long strips of grey formed a gigantic arrowhead, pointing the way to the south-east. A fifth, adjoining runway was fitted with fresh planks of wood, each pushed close to the last. The wooden runway was scraped flat to provide a flat, even, safe surface on which to land. The better-quality, new runways attracted a small number of local civilian pilots, who flew their own planes in and out of the airfield almost as they wished. The wooden runway was concreted over and the four paved runways became five as demand increased.

As the Forties drew to a close and US Navy policy changed, tough decisions were made. Civilian pilots were denied permission to use the airfield. Rumours spread locally that the denial was a result of the Navy's decision to close the base; sure enough, by the end of 1950 Libertyville had closed as a military base.

Libertyville may have been abandoned by the military, but not by the locals. The pilots who had used the airfield with the Navy's permission now used it as a civilian airport for a year or two, and the concrete even saw use as a speedway track for a brief spell.

During the early Fifties, with Cold War tensions beginning to rise, Libertyville airfield was brought back under military control. The civilian pilots were grounded once more, and the Naval presence at the airfield slowly began to increase. The inhabitants of the nearby town of Vernon Hills commented to one another about how many more unmarked trucks and Jeeps could be seen on the roads that led to and from the base. By the middle of the decade, the airfield became home to two batteries of Nike-Ajax surface-to-air missiles; eight long white tubes, each resting on its silver launcher, slender cones pointing into the Illinois sky. The soldiers working at Libertyville were proud to operate the first guided missile site to be installed in the Chicago area.

The missile batteries at Libertyville were manned and maintained for almost ten years, kept ready to protect the citizens of Chicago in the event of war. The increase in the number of personnel at the base led the Army to construct barracks, mess halls and offices for the soldiers, officers and other base personnel. Before long, the triangle inside the runways was peppered with buildings. As time passed, Libertyville came to be known locally as Vernon Hills Missile Base.

As the Army began to implement better alternatives to the missiles, the base's batteries were made obsolete and eventually were deactivated completely. Base personnel began to transfer away and by 1963, Vernon Hills Missile Base had been officially abandoned.

As season followed season, it became nature's turn to take over the base. Grass and weeds slowly began to push their way up through the cracks in the concrete runways. Now that they were no longer maintained, the myriad buildings fell into disrepair. Broken windows hung from sagging frames; doorways stood open, empty hinges rusted solid. For the remaining years of the Sixties, the missile base was effectively forgotten.

Then the black trucks came.

Few of the residents of Vernon Hills ever actually saw them, but some claimed that they had done so. They came at night, it was said, blacked-out semi-trucks with their headlights off. No-one knew what cargo was being transported inside, and the black trailers bore neither logo nor lettering to offer any clue. The trucks would arrive at night, or so the rumour went, perhaps one or two every couple weeks. They would drive up to the huge gates that blocked the entrance to the airfield, and men in dark glasses and black combat uniforms would step out of the shadows to open the gates, watch the trucks as they rolled past, roll the gates closed again and fade back into the shadows. For almost six months, the trucks came and they went away again but after a while, they stopped coming altogether. Life in Vernon Hills continued, and there were other, different, more interesting things than black trucks to talk about.

To the adult residents of Vernon Hills, the missile base became part of the history of their small town. To the younger population, it became somewhere amorous teenagers might spend time away from the watchful eye of their parents, a place to ‘kick back and relax’. More than once the base played host to impromptu rock shows, electric guitar riffs and pounding bass lines thumping out from speakers hauled from their owners' houses, classic tunes drifting out into the darkness across the waist-high grass.

Inside the rusty chain-link fence that still marked the border of the missile base, the buildings continued to decay, rotten timber frames collapsing under the figurative weight of years and very real weight of concrete and corrugated iron. The runways had all but returned to the grass strips they had once been, and the only other visible evidence of the base's history were the concrete rectangles in the northeast and northwest corners of the base on which the pointed white tubes had once stood.

The concrete slabs that lay among the grass and wild flowers in the northwest corner were the only outward sign that, contrary to what the locals believed, Vernon Hills Missile Base was not abandoned. Concealed beneath three feet of solid concrete, housed within the subterranean storage area that had once contained surface-to-air missiles, under the very noses of the local townsfolk, a secret experiment was being conducted.


	5. Chapter 5

HIGHWAY 88, 16 MILES WEST OF BRANWELL  
7:53 A.M.

The sun had just begun to rise, its pale rays pushing through the clouds and stretching out across the Illinois sky. Flashes of light reflected off chrome and windshield as the sparse traffic travelling on Interstate Highway 88 glinted in the early morning light.

A black pickup truck weaved lazily between the vehicles travelling eastwards along the highway. In the driver's seat, a rough-shaven man checked his mirrors, steely gaze surveying the vehicles behind and around him. As the pickup crested a hill, a beam of sunlight shone through the windshield and into his eyes. He flipped down the sun visor as he pulled the wheel to the left and pushed his foot down. The pickup snaked around a small hatchback and began to pick up speed.

Without warning, his body was wracked by a bout of agonising spasms. Fire began to burn in his chest, spreading out into his limbs. He could feel his heart pounding beneath his ribs, his pulse roaring in his ears. Shadows began to creep in at the edges of his vision, and it took almost all his strength to wrestle the truck across two lanes of tarmac and onto the grass that lined the edge of the highway. He pressed hard on the foot brake, bringing the pickup to a halt with a jolt. Forcing himself to focus and push through the pain, he reached under the steering wheel and turned off the ignition. He collapsed back in his seat, closing his eyes. As he hovered on the edge of unconsciousness, a long-suppressed memory pushed its way forward.

* 

He could hear strange, garbled sounds intruding through the inky blackness that surrounded him. Gradually the sounds became clearer and he realised they were voices, though he could make no sense of them. Colours began to coalesce from the darkness, and he could feel a cold, solid surface beneath him. With an effort he forced his eyes open to a squint, but a painfully bright white light flooded his vision and he closed them again. He tried to raise a hand to rub his eyes, but his wrists seemed somehow connected to the surface on which he lay. His feet seemed similarly restricted.

He stretched out the fingers on one hand, the movement difficult given his restraints. Despite his efforts, his fingertips could only detect the smooth coldness of metal.

His head was swimming. He tried to concentrate on keeping his breathing slow and even, ignoring the pressure he could feel building in his skull. Slowly the strange spinning sensation he felt subsided and eventually faded altogether.

He opened his eyes again, looking down towards his feet. In his peripheral vision he could make out a number of figures around him, their bodies white and unnaturally thin, features obscured by the light. He heard the voices again and this time he was able to make out some of the words.

“...coming round.”

“Inject.. .gain, sir?”

“Yes. Hope... ...sults this time.”

An unseen hand lifted his arm and swiped at the inside of his elbow with something cold. A sudden sharp sting of pain flashed inside his head and he tried to pull away, but the hand held him firmly. He felt an odd sensation spread slowly up his arm, cold at first but rapidly increasing in temperature as it pulsed towards his shoulder. Panic began to rise as he felt the heat rise to a burning fire that spread through his chest, and across his entire being. He grimaced, fighting against his restraints as his fists pounded uselessly against the unyielding metal beneath him.

“Breathe, son.” A voice near his head said. “Breathe.”

With a gasp, he did as the voice told him, filling his lungs as far as he could. As he let the breath out the fire began to subside, fading from his head and chest and limbs. With each breath exhaustion swept through him, and he felt as though the fire burned the strength from his muscles as it slowly melted away. He slipped into sleep.

When he woke again, he was still on the metal table, still restrained. The figures stood around him, but he could hear that their voices were different this time. He was unable to resist as one of the figures gently pulled up one of his eyelids. A thin light flashed into and then out of his vision, and his eyelid was released. The hand again held his arm and when the sharp scratch came, he could feel a knot of fear in his stomach in anticipation. This time however, there was no spreading fire.

He managed to turn his head, watching a small glass vial as it slowly filled with a deep red liquid. As he watched, he thought he could see slender streaks of black as they swirled – _swam_ – through his blood as if the substance were alive. The fingers of a latex glove-covered hand wrapped themselves around the glass vial, separating it from the needle in his arm. Another gloved hand slid the thin metal out of his vein, covering the tiny hole that remained with a folded square of gauze.

He turned his head away from the hand on his arm, looking between the thin white figures into the room beyond. His vision was blurry, and he blinked several times until he could focus properly.

He lay in a small room with pale yellow walls and a concrete floor. Three other men lay unconscious on steel tables nearby. Each was shackled to his table by thick leather straps that bound his wrists and ankles. Above each table, a bright light illuminated each man's face and torso. More white figures were moving between the tables, and in the corner of the room was another figure, by itself. The figure was darker, more shadow-like. As he watched, the figure motioned to one of the white figures. They seemed to exchange a few words before the white figure was waved away again.

The dark figure reached down and stubbed out a half-finished cigarette in a waiting ashtray. A thin wisp of smoke curled up towards the ceiling as the shadowy figure turned and left the room.

His head began to swim again, and he could feel himself slipping back into unconsciousness. He tried to make himself focus on a sign on the far wall, tried to read it as one of the white figures moved to block his view. Darkness took him once more, and his last thought was of being unsure if he had read the words from the sign on the wall or from the name badge the white figure wore. He repeated the words to himself as everything faded.

“Vernon Hills.”


	6. Chapter 6

O'HARE AIRPORT, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS  
1:36 P.M.

United Airlines flight 918 from Washington, D.C. was just over two minutes behind schedule when it touched down on the asphalt of O'Hare International Airport's runway 14R-32L. Three pairs of thick rubber tyres squealed in complaint as they took the full force of the high-speed contact, suspension struts in the airplane's landing gear compressing to dampen the impact. Inside the cabin of the aircraft, the hundred and twenty or so humans on board felt the plane lurch a little as it landed; a sensation not much different from the jolt an elevator makes as it stops at the selected floor.

The plane continued on its path along the runway, pilot and co-pilot scrambling to cut their aircraft's speed before they ran out of blacktop. They battled hard, slowing the airplane from over 160 miles per hour to less than 20 as it barreled along the eight-thousand-foot-long strip of asphalt.

The flight crew were finally able to rein in the hundred-ton aircraft, and moments later Flight 918 was taxiing towards O'Hare's Terminal 1. On board, some of the passengers were already growing impatient, ready to gather their bags and belongings as the cabin crew gently reminded them to stay in their seats until the plane came to a halt.

Finally, the flight attendants opened Flight 918's doors. Passengers hurriedly pulled bags from overhead lockers and children from seats, eager to get to baggage reclaim as quickly as they could. Before long a queue had started to form at the doors.

Still in their seats, Mulder and Scully watched the throng of people pass as the airplane slowly emptied. The Agents were domestic flight veterans, having racked up several thousand Air Miles as they crisscrossed the country in pursuit of leads in the cases they worked. Knowing better than to try and beat the rush, they waited in their seats as the queue grew shorter.

A tall man in a grey suit bumped Mulder's arm with his briefcase as he passed, knocking the FBI man's elbow off the armrest. The tall man muttered an apology, hurrying past without looking back.

“Welcome to Illinois!” Scully said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. 

Mulder turned to see her smiling at him. He rolled his eyes at her in response before turning away to flip up his armrest. After checking the aisle behind their seats was clear, he stood up to stretch away the ache of the cramped airline seating. If he could have chosen, Mulder would have opted for the more roomy seats at the front of the airplane - if only the FBI budget was able to stretch that far.

He stepped aside to allow Scully out of her seat by the window, reaching up to pull his rucksack and her briefcase from the overhead storage locker. He slung his pack over one shoulder as Scully brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt, waiting until she was done before holding the briefcase out to her.

The line of people at the doors was slowly beginning to grow smaller. Mulder checked around the seats they had occupied to ensure nothing had been left behind, and joined Scully at the back of the queue. A minute or two later, they were walking along the jetway to the terminal gate. Mulder looked at his watch as they walked.

“It’s a quarter of 2,” he observed. “The town of Branwell is around two hours’ drive from here. With a little luck, we'll be there in time for dinner.” Mulder glanced at Scully as they walked past the flock of people gathering around the baggage claim. “I have it on good authority that there’s a restaurant on the edge of the town that serves a killer blackened chicken salad...” Mulder grinned as he realised what he had said, adding, “Excuse the pun.” Scully shook her head, trying in vain to hide a smile.

“Let’s get there first, Mulder,” she told him. She paused to stop at an airport map. “Looks like _Lariat Rent-a-car_ is right at the other end of the concourse,” she continued, tapping the acrylic. Above her finger, Mulder could see the white lettering that formed the Lariat logo. He nodded and looked around the edge of the map. The concourse was near-packed with travellers, their luggage, and their families. Various groups of people thronged together, forming and breaking apart as the crowd moved. The agents stepped away from the map into the roiling mass of people.

“Who are we supposed to contact in Branwell?" Scully asked as they sidestepped a small group of schoolkids who were being guided by a pair of worried-looking women; teachers with their class, she assumed. She gave what she hoped was an understanding smile to one of the teachers before turning her attention back to Mulder.

“I spoke to a Detective Kelly from Branwell PD this morning,” he began. “She's expecting us at around five this evening. Hopefully she will have had enough time to gather together some information for us. Let's get that car.” He pushed at the glass door that was the entrance to _Lariat Rent-a-car_, holding it open for Scully then following her inside.

A little less than ten minutes later, the agents were walking along the concourse once more. A single key on a thick black fob dangled from Mulder’s fingers, jingling slightly as he strode along the polished floor of the concourse, Scully at his side. Automatic doors detected their approach, sliding soundlessly open. They stepped through, the doors closed behind them just as silently, and the agents were outside.

The winter sun was low in the sky; Mulder had to shield his eyes with one hand as he looked around. He pointed off to his right, where Scully could see a Lariat logo on a sign about a hundred yards away.

Mulder stepped out into the road, prompting Scully to pull him back by his jacket as a taxi cab flashed past, horn blaring. She gestured to a nearby crosswalk, where they crossed in safety and made their way to the car they were renting: a silver Ford Taurus.


	7. Chapter 7

2:15 p.m.

Fine particles of orange-brown dirt hung low in the air behind the speeding vehicle, lingering exactly like the contrails in the wake of the airplane that sliced its way across the winter sky above.

The crude dirt road cut a thick line across open fields, deep ruts revealing the many years of use the route had seen. In spring the track would be in more regular use by local farmers using it to access their crops, green-painted tractors gleaming in the sun; this time of year the track was barely used, since the ground was too cold for anything to grow.

_Rain. Just great._

No sooner had the thought occurred to him than the first drops began to fall. Small scattered beads of water developed into drizzle, the fading dust contrails behind the pickup washed out of the air and down into the rapidly-forming puddles below.

There was no roadmap in the pickup; although he had never been to wherever the now-familiar force was pulling him, he somehow knew the way.

The shower became a downpour, smaller droplets coalescing into larger drops. The larger drops beat an indistinct rhythm, drummed on the hood and roof of the pickup. The reverberations inside the vehicle grew loud enough to be heard over the sound of the running engine. He flicked the truck’s headlights on to low beam.

The pickup bounced into a deeper section of the road. Careening through a deeper puddle, its front tires forced small tsunamis over the lines of grass that separated the track from the fields on either side. The wheels lost traction momentarily, the truck began to slide. He eased off the gas a little, gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

The wind was stronger now, whipping the deluge into sheets that cut across his path, obscuring the horizon from view. He flicked the headlights to full. Frowning again, he tried to keep his focus on the track ahead. The way the rain glittered in the headlight beams reminded him of the only channel his TV showed since he threw his boot at it.

The rough-shaven man's visual focus shifted and wandered, and so did his thoughts.

*

It had been raining the first time as well, he remembered, although it had stopped after a short time. It wasn't as cold that day, either; back in October the trees still had their leaves.

It had started with an eruption of agony, an assault of pain that was now all-too familiar. It had started in his chest and spread out through his limbs, seeming to grow in intensity before it became to much to bear. He had welcomed unconsciousness as it enveloped him like thick, dark smoke.

He half-believed he had dreamed the strange force into existence that first time. He remembered the way it had seemed to grow from nothing into a dark ball, somewhere deep in his core. He could almost see it leech out through his being, thin streaks of shadow sneaking painlessly through vein and muscle, taking over his body by stealth. He remembered waking up in confusion thinking something else had stepped in and taken control, only to find it was true.

By the time he had realised what was happening he was already a prisoner. His mind was his cell, and all he could do was watch through the bars as the entity took over his body.

He had driven for miles that first time as well, although the force had compelled him down different roads than today. He recalled how it felt like he was being pulled by an invisible cord, tethered to the center of his chest – the same sensation that was currently drawing him headlong along his path, hurtling down a remote country road in the middle of a rainstorm.

His thoughts wandered back to the present and he realised the rain had begun to ease, fading from a deluge to a downpour. The rivulets running down the windshield distorted his vision, but he was able to make out the shape and colour of a sign at the side of the track.

_There is a turn here_, the strange force told him, _one you need to take._>/p> 

He wrenched the steering wheel over and the truck began to slide sideways in the thick mud as it veered left. The front and rear wheels on the truck's right side slammed against grass as the mud-spattered vehicle skidded around the corner and across the width of the trail. Straightening the wheel, he shifted in his seat again and pressed on the gas pedal.

He had a feeling it wasn't far now.

*

Ten minutes later the pickup turned onto asphalt again, leaving behind both the muddy trail and the pouring rain. A sign beside the road informed the rough-shaven man he was Now Entering Abraham, asking him to drive safely through the town.

The pull of the invisible tether was stronger now; he sensed he was nearly at his destination. He took one of the side streets leading away from the main streets of Abraham, towards the houses surrounding the town center. As he drove, the rough-shaven man scanned the buildings around him. He passed a large building surrounded by metal fencing – a disused factory, he saw through the gaps in the fence. He slowed down to look as he passed. Above the rusted padlock that secured the gates hung a faded board, the real estate agent's name bleached, peeling, and unreadable. The tether pulled his attention back to the road, and he drove on.

A few turns later, he spotted an alley that stretched away behind a row of houses. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he turned the wheel, drove a short way down the alley and killed the engine. He reached across over the center console to the passenger footwell, pulling a holdall onto the seat. He took another look around before opening the bag.

At the top of the small pile of items was a small roll of dark fabric, tied with thick black thread pulled into a bow. He reached for it, careful not to be too rough. As he put the roll of fabric on his lap and gently unfastened the bow, he could hear the sound of glass tapping against glass from within. He unrolled the material to uncover two slender syringes, their needles protected by bright plastic caps. Each was filled with a clear liquid.

He kept his fingers away from the caps on the syringes; he knew not to get the contents on his skin. Beside the pair of full syringes were three empty spaces, their former contents used and discarded. After checking both syringes were intact, he carefully rolled up the material, re-tied the bow, and placed the fabric roll on the seat next to his holdall.

The next item, the brown and beige uniform, had been one of his better ideas. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough. Wearing the uniform and carrying a parcel, he looked just like any other UPS guy – and who pays attention to the UPS guy?

Checking again to make sure there was no-one else around, he changed into the uniform. He cinched and buckled the belt around his waist as he stepped out of his truck. Reaching over, he pulled a fake parcel from the holdall – an empty box, wrapped with brown paper and tied with string. He grabbed the parcel, and then reached over to pick up the roll of material, carefully slipping it into the pocket of his shirt. He pushed the now-empty holdall back into the passenger footwell, and saw the straight razor he had tossed onto the seat when he had left his trailer earlier. He retrieved the razor from where it lay, and tucked it into his back pocket. He closed the door of the truck, taking care to push rather than slam it shut as he usually would. He couldn't take any chances now.

_The fewer witnesses, the better – don't want to attract any unwanted attention._

He was so close now, he could feel it. Even now, as he walked out of the alley and onto the street, he had no inkling as to the identity of his quarry. The tether pulled and the entity forced him to comply; that was all he knew.

It pulled him down the street; a street that looked much the same as any street in any small town in rural Illinois. The houses were each set back from the sidewalk, offering a small garden in front. Most of the gardens were lawns and flowerbeds; in some places, they had been concreted over in favor of a driveway. He had passed a few houses when the tether tugged at him.

_Here._

He forced himself to take a breath, pushing his shoulders down and filling his lungs as deeply as he could. He could feel his heart pounding as adrenaline began to course through his veins. He tried to ignore it as he read the name on the mailbox, hand-painted onto the metal: **WILLIAMS**.

The front porch was separated from the small garden by some low wooden steps. Taking them in one stride, he crouched down to place the package onto the door mat. He reached into his pocket for the syringes, untied the thick thread that bound the roll of material, and carefully pulled a single syringe from its place. He set the syringe on the parcel in front of him, rolling the other back into the material and securing it again.

As he stood, he slipped the material back into his pocket before retrieving the syringe and parcel from the floor. He held the syringe in the fingers of one hand, the lower edge of the parcel concealing it from view. He took another deep breath, and put on the friendliest smile he could muster before knocking on the door. Seconds passed, and he could see a shadow in the hallway as it approached the door from the other side. He heard the sound of a bolt being slid across, and the door opened.

“Good afternoon! Mister Williams? Looks like there's a package for you.”


	8. Chapter 8

BRANWELL, ILLINOIS  
5:07 P.M.

It took the agents a little over two hours to drive from O'Hare to the town of Branwell. They were joined on their journey by Chicago's many office workers and labourers, teachers and municipal workers as they all began the slow exodus ironically referred to as “rush hour”. Long snakes of vehicles slowly edged along the roads leading from the centre of the city and out to the suburbs and towns in the Illinois countryside beyond.

With Scully driving, it fell to Mulder to navigate both the route to Branwell and the paperwork he had gathered on the case so far. They reviewed the photographs he had shown Scully back at their basement office, and started to build a profile.

“Our suspect is most likely a white male, twenty-five to forty years of age, with a history of violence,” Mulder surmised. Scully nodded in agreement.

“Given the positioning of the wound below the most recent victim's ear, it's possible he's had some kind of medical training,” she theorized. “The lack of bruising or other injuries on the body suggests the suspect was able to subdue his victim without a struggle – perhaps incapacitating him by using chloroform or something similar.”

“Which may point to the suspect having above-average strength, allowing him to easily overpower his victim,” Mulder added. He paused. When the silence began to draw out over a few seconds, Scully glanced at him. He was looking back at her, his brow furrowed slightly as he studied her face.

“What is it?” She asked him, before looking back to the road.

“I was just thinking,” Mulder replied. His tone struck Scully as just a little too casual. She glanced at him again.

“Listen, Scully, I...” he began awkwardly. He cleared his throat and started again. “I know how difficult the Pfaster case was for you. I wanted to make sure – is everything okay?”

Scully didn't answer straight away. Something in the way her partner asked the question had triggered a memory. For a split second she was back in that house, hands and feet bound, a dark silhouette looming menacingly over her. She pushed the mental image away, swallowing the lump that had begun to form in her throat.

“I'm fine, Mulder,” she told him with what she hoped was certainty and confidence in her voice. She spoke without taking her eyes from the road, not trusting herself in that moment to be able to both meet his gaze and retain her composure.

In the days following Pfaster's arrest, Scully's sleep had been punctuated by nightmares. More than once she had woken suddenly in the middle of the night, the image of the fetishist's emotionless face in her mind's eye and his monotone voice in her ears.

She had arranged a second counselling appointment with Agent Kosseff, and together they had further discussed the effects the Pfaster case was having. With the counsellor's help, by the end of December Scully's nightmares had all but ceased, though she sometimes found herself awake before dawn and unable to go back to sleep.

To begin with, she had tried to keep Mulder from knowing how badly things had been affecting her; partly out of a desire to convince him – as well as herself – that she could cope, partly because the concern her partner showed made her feel a little embarrassed.

In more recent days she had come to appreciate the fact that he cared so much for her well-being; it felt good to know she had his support. She remembered the way he had held her after freeing her from Pfaster, the sense of security she had felt in his arms as she sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder. They had stood there for what seemed like forever, she recalled, Mulder silently holding her until her tears had eventually stopped. The memory was comforting, and she drew strength from it.

“Really, Mulder. I'm okay.” She looked over at him with a smile. He nodded and smiled back at her, seeming to accept her assertion. They passed a road sign that announced an upcoming junction, and Mulder looked down at the map on his lap.

“We need to leave the highway here,” he told her, changing the subject. Flipping on the car's right blinker, Scully checked her mirrors before changing lanes.

*

The town of Branwell was home to some ten thousand inhabitants. Like most of the towns across the state – and the entire country – Branwell had grown up around a small cluster of buildings on a regularly-used route. Over time, more and more buildings had been built in the surrounding area, slowly spreading along what became the main road through the town. The townspeople of Branwell named the street for their state's most famous son. 

Lincoln Avenue was relatively free of traffic, given the time of day. As Scully maneuvred the silver Taurus along the tree-lined street, Mulder leaned forward in his seat to point out a turning to her. With a glance in the rear-view, she took the corner, pulling up at the curb after a short distance. She killed the engine and engaged the parking brake with one hand as she pressed the seatbelt release with the other. She removed the ignition key and turned in her seat. Mulder handed the case file to her before leaning through the gap between their seats to retrieve his overcoat from the back seat.

“All set?” he asked. She nodded, tucking the folder under one arm and opening her door.

Branwell Police Department's headquarters was set back slightly from the sidewalk. The three-storeyed red-brick building was angular and plain, conveying a sense of solemn efficiency. A faded sign bearing the Branwell PD logo stood in front of the building, silver letters turned to gold by the reflection of the street lights that lined the sidewalk: “_To Protect and Serve_”.

The agents made their way up the few steps that led to the doorway marking the building's entrance. Scully held the door open for her partner, following him into the reception hall beyond. Two officers were standing near the front desk, talking in hushed voices. One of them, a blonde-haired man, smiled at Scully as the agents crossed the room.

As he approached the counter, Mulder reached into his pocket and pulled out his FBI ID badge. As the officer behind the counter looked up from her computer screen at him, he flipped it open and flashed her a smile.

“I'm FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder, and this –“ he turned to gesture to Scully – “is Special Agent Dana Scully. We're here to meet with Detective Kelly,” he added.

“She's expecting you. Officer Brady will show you the way.” She indicated the officers standing nearby. At the mention of his name, the blonde man stepped toward them, his hand outstretched. Mulder shook his hand, then stepped back so Scully could do the same.

“Evening folks,” Brady smiled in greeting. “This way, please.” He turned to a nearby door. Scully stepped forward, feeling the momentary touch of Mulder's hand on her back as she passed him.

Beyond the door, twenty or thirty police officers worked, some of them at their desks, typing on a computer or talking on the phone. One officer was leaning against his colleague's desk, deep in conversation. A few stood together in a group, the occasional peal of laughter punctuating the general din of the room. The majority of the officers, Scully noticed as she followed Brady between the desks, were middle-aged men.

Long windows filled part of the wall at the other end of the room. In the centre of the line of windows was a wooden door with a large square of frosted glass set into it. Blinds had been pulled down in all the windows to obscure the room beyond. Brady stopped in front of the door and knocked loudly.

“Come in!” a voice called. Brady opened the door and stepped through, Scully and Mulder following behind him.

The detective’s office was sparsely furnished. A pair of filing cabinets stood against one wall, a small table against another. Above the small table hung a framed photograph of President Clinton. Scully recognised the President's pose; the picture was identical to the one hanging in Skinner’s office back in D.C.

A large desk dominated the centre of the room. A pile of papers were stacked in a tray on one corner; a small photograph frame had been placed at an angle on another. A laptop computer sat between the two; the detective sitting behind the desk had been typing until Brady and the agents had entered.

“Detective?”When the woman behind the desk looked up at him, Brady continued.

“Uh, Agent Mulder and Agent Scully are here.” The detective stood up and waved a hand to the chairs on the opposite side of the desk from her own. “Good evening, Agent Mulder... Agent Scully,” she greeted them in turn. “Please, take a seat. Can we get you anything? Coffee? Soda?”

The agents politely refused; Detective Kelly nodded at Officer Brady, who stood by the door behind them. He left without a word, pulling the door closed behind him. After introducing themselves, Mulder and Scully both sat.

“Thanks for coming down, agents,” Detective Kelly began, brushing a strand of dark brown hair behind one ear. “We appreciate the Bureau's help. Hopefully now we'll be able to make some headway on this case.”


	9. Chapter 9

Mulder returned Brady's nod as the officer left, the door clicking shut at almost the same moment that Detective Kelly closed the lid of her laptop. The still-lit screen projected a faint halo of light on the desk. Scully was sitting forward in her chair, the manila folder containing their case notes and photos in her lap.

“Here's what we've put together so far, Detective.”

She leaned forward to hand the file to the Detective, who took it with a nod of thanks and sat back in her own chair. Mulder and Scully exchanged glances as she opened the folder and began to flip through the documents inside. Scully knew Mulder had placed the photo of the latest victim at the top of the pile, and that the Detective had probably already seen it as part of her own investigation. What wasn't so clear was how many of the remaining photos she had also seen.

The answer came as soon as the first photo was flipped over. Although she could sense Detective Kelly was trying to keep her reaction neutral, Scully noticed the slight widening of her eyes. She remembered her own reaction to those same images and felt a twinge of sympathy. The detective said nothing as she flipped through the remaining photos and scanned Mulder's handwritten notes on their suspect profile.

Mulder shifted in his seat, and Scully glanced at him. His expression told her the protracted silence was beginning to make him a little uneasy, but that he was nevertheless unwilling to break it. She smiled back at him, sympathetic and reassuring. They waited.

A few moments later, the detective reached the end of the notes and flipped the folder closed. She gently tossed the file on top of the laptop in front of her and looked from Scully to Mulder. He sat with one elbow on the arm of his chair and his fingers cupped around the side of his chin.

“Thanks for this,” Detective Kelly began, gesturing at the folder in front of her. Scully smiled in reply; Mulder sat up in his chair.

“Your casefile answers a couple questions we had. Firstly, the word “Three” carved onto our victim made it pretty clear this wasn't our suspect's first time, but we haven't been able to trace the previous two victims yet - it's always difficult working across districts over Christmas time,” the detective added as a half-apology, her mouth twitching into a momentary smile.

The agents nodded in agreement; the wheels of bureaucracy turned slowest over public holidays, a fact they both knew from grim first-hand experience.

“We came up with a profile of our own,” Detective Kelly said, “and from reading your notes it seems we weren't too far off the mark. White male, 25-40, history of violence. The thing is... Do you know how many white males of that age live in Illinois, Agent Mulder?”

“Around six million,” Mulder shot back immediately, although he knew the question had been rhetorical. With a shrug and a sheepish grin, he added, “Give or take.”

Detective Kelly looked at Mulder, one eyebrow momentarily raised at his unexpected interruption. For a moment there was a momentary tightening of her brow, and it seemed to Scully that the detective was about to say something to him in response. The moment passed, and Detective Kelly continued.

“Exactly – and Lincoln County encompasses around a hundred thousand people. We just don't have the resources to investigate and interview each and every potential suspect. Accurate as it may prove to be, on its own the profile isn't enough. We need more if we're going to catch this guy.”

Mulder shifted in his seat, and Scully glanced over at him. She had seen that slight frown and the tightening of his mouth before; he had been protective of his work for as long as she had known him. Detective Kelly’s eyes met his and she fell silent, waiting for him to speak. Scully noticed the slightest of shrugs as Mulder leaned forward; _Well, I'm committed now_, it seemed to say. He cleared his throat to buy the time to put his thoughts together.

“It's nowhere near a comprehensive profile, that's true,” he conceded. As he spoke Scully could sense Mulder was starting to pull up the facade of professionalism he used as a shield when he felt threatened.

“It's simply a starting point, Detective. That's why we're here – to help narrow the field of suspects and catch them before anyone else dies. I- ” Detective Kelly put up a hand and Mulder fell silent.

“Sorry for interrupting,” she began. Mulder shook his head, _apology accepted_.

“Please don't get me wrong. As I said, I'm grateful to have the Bureau's help on this, but we just don't have the resources to properly investigate this – especially since your case file suggests the other victims were killed in other jurisdictions. I can have an officer pull up all the current records from this district that match your profile – is there anything else you suggest we do?”

Mulder's expression had lost the edge it wore a moment before, but the professionalism remained. “Thank you, Detective. Maybe there'll be something in the records that will help narrow the field.

"When all else fails we go back to the victim – victims, I should say,” he corrected himself. “Let's take them one at a time, starting with the most recent. What can you tell us about him, beyond a name?”

“Give me a moment.”

Detective Kelly leaned over, shuffling through the papers in her desk tray. “Here,” she said. “This is a copy of the attending officer's report. You can add it to your file.”

She pulled two sheets from the tray, stapled together in one corner. After pausing to glance at the front sheet, she put the papers on top of the file, and pushed the folder off the top of her laptop in Mulder's direction. He leaned forward in his chair to take both folder and report. As he sat back, he was already scanning the top sheet.

“Agent Scully, you're a medical doctor, right?” The detective asked her as Mulder read. “We'd really appreciate it if you wouldn’t mind checking the autopsy report, maybe take a second look at the body? Just to double-check our coroner covered everything.”

“Of course.”

“Great. I’ll call the coroner to get you access to the report, and arrange an appointment for you to view the body in the morning, if that suits you?” Scully nodded, as Mulder flipped to the second page of the report.

“That's interesting,” he mused, half to himself.

“What’s interesting?” Detective Kelly asked.

“Your attending officer's report says the victim was employed at a company named Armcor Holdings at the time of his death. I’m sure I’ve heard the name somewhere before.” Mulder thought for a moment, then added, “I'm sure it'll come to me.”

“Armcor Holdings...” Detective Kelly mused. “Not a name I recognise, but I can look it up for you. Give me a moment.” She flipped open her laptop. Bluish light washed over her features, highlighting the curve of her cheekbones, reflecting in her eyes and darkening the shadow below her jawline.

Scully gave Mulder a questioning look; she was well aware of Mulder's eidetic memory, and it was strange that for once he was unable to remember. He always spotted those small details that somehow always seemed to escape other peoples' notice. She opened her mouth to speak, but the look in Mulder's eyes silenced Scully's words before they left her lips.

“Here we go.” Detective Kelly seemed not to have noticed the exchange. “Yellow Pages has an Armcor Holdings listed at 530 East River Road. Let me write down the number.”

Thank you. I appreciate that,” Mulder said, handing the report over to Scully. As she began to read and the detective found a pen and a Post-It note, he continued, “Agent Scully and I will start looking into the other two victims tomorrow. Maybe we'll find something to tie them together, or to help identify the suspect.”

“Or both,” Detective Kelly added, peeling the top note from the stack and handing it to him.

“We live in hope.” Mulder raised his hands, palms momentarily touching together in mock prayer before he took the Post-It. Scully finished reading and passed the report back to him. He stuck the note onto the report, rubbing the ball of his thumb over the top edge to make sure it stuck.

“I guess you folks will be staying at the motel while you're in the area?” Detective Kelly asked. Mulder nodded; it was standard protocol when working in the field.

“There's only one in Branwell, but it's a nice enough place: the Piper Motel. I'll contact you there with the details from the coroner, Agent Scully. Agent Mulder, you'll need to visit City Hall to find out anything more about Armcor Holdings.” The tone of Detective Kelly's voice signalled that the meeting had come to an end. She stood, and the agents did the same. Mulder slipped the report into the folder, then tucked the file under one arm as he straightened his necktie.

“Thanks again for coming, agents,” the detective said as she crossed the room. As the door opened, the clamour from outside pierced the quiet of the office and she was forced to raise her voice a little. “I'll be in touch as soon as I can. Can you find your own way back to the front desk?”

“We'll manage.” Mulder smiled amiably at the detective as he gestured to Scully to lead the way. They shook hands with Detective Kelly and stepped out the office into the noise beyond.


End file.
